


My Love is Carried to You By My Feet

by one_more_offbeat_anthem



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Author Castiel, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Sickfic, Snowed In, and they were roommates!!!, nursing student dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28692651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_more_offbeat_anthem/pseuds/one_more_offbeat_anthem
Summary: Dean and his roommate and best friend, Cas, are snowed in together for the time being, which wouldn't be so bad if Dean hadn't been hopelessly in love with Cas for years.And then Dean gets a cold.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 165
Collections: Dean/Cas Tropefest 2021 Mid-Winter 5k





	My Love is Carried to You By My Feet

**Author's Note:**

> This was my Tropefest Midwinter 5k for 2021, and if y'all couldn't tell from the tags, this is CHOCK-FULL of tropes!!! thanks to my pal jo.cann for beta-ing this for me :) and be sure to check out the rest of the collection--posting goes until the 17th, and there are sure to be a ton of great fics!
> 
> title comes from the song "betrayed by bones" by hellogoodbye
> 
> As always, props go to the Profound Bond discord server. If you're 18+, [join us!](https://discord.gg/profoundbond) we're good fun :)
> 
> And if you like this, I post more stuff here sometimes and also on [my tumblr](https://one-more-offbeat-anthem.tumblr.com) :)

“Anything new?"

Cas clicks the television off with the remote as Dean comes up behind the couch, leaning on the cushions, propping his chin in his hands. “Looks like we’re about to be snowed in,” Cas replies. “I’m glad we went to the store yesterday.”

“Me too, jesus. Hope the power doesn’t go out.”

“If it does, we have candles.”

“Yeah, all your Christmas-themed ones that you burn year-round. Can’t wait for the whole apartment to smell like a fuckin’ candy cane.” Dean pulls himself up and heads to the kitchen to grab a beer. 

“They’re not that bad,” Cas replies, getting off the couch to follow him, “And if you hated them so much, why didn’t you tell me to stop burning them?”   


“Because it’s  _ our  _ apartment, not just mine, and they make you happy. Here.” Dean grabs two beers out of the fridge, sliding one across the kitchen island to Cas.

Dean and Cas had become roommates back in the far-off days of college, and when they realized that they were both headed to New York after graduation, they had decided to stay roommates. That had seemed like a great idea at the time, but Dean had realized that he was perhaps-maybe-sorta-kinda-definitely in love with his roommate-turned-best-friend about a year and a half ago, and now he’s going nuts. 

It’s easier to ignore Cas, with his easy-going demeanor, when they aren’t stuck together for the foreseeable future. Cas is the kind of person who remembers Dean’s favorite order at nearly every restaurant they like to get take-out from, who always tries (and fails) to bake a pie for Dean’s birthday, who’s willing to give up nature documentaries to watch  _ Dr. Sexy, M.D.  _ with Dean, who alternately lets Dean ply him with beer and coerces Dean into eating vegetables. 

(Who knew that roasted root vegetables were good? A little olive oil, some salt...Cas is a  _ lifesaver.) _

At the present moment, Cas is looking at his beer cap like it’s from another planet, and Dean takes the bottle back from him, popping it off on the side of the island.

“Thank you,” Cas says, accepting the bottle again and taking a swig, “The cap was confusing.”

“If it doesn’t say  _ twist off,  _ you have to use a bottle opener.”

“Or the island.”

“That, too.” Dean leans back against the counter, staring at Cas across the island, “How long do you think we’ll be snowed in?”

“News estimated a week. My work already gave everyone the next three days off.”

“...Cas, you’re a freelance writer. You’re your  _ own  _ boss.”

“But I’m contracted with a couple of magazines right now.” Cas shrugs, “What about you?”

Dean feigns staring out the window, unwilling to answer the question. He’s in his….fourth year of nursing school. The registered nurse diploma’s only supposed to take two years, but Dean’s pretty sure he’s going to finally graduate in May, barring him doing anything else potentially ill-advised. When he’s not spending every spare second studying, he’s working part-time at a bar. 

It’s not exactly the dream, but hopefully, after May, he can actually get a start on his career.

“Dean?”

Dean jerks back into the moment. “Sorry, Cas. My boss hasn’t texted me yet, but I bet the bar’ll close if no one can go out. Especially if the subways shut down.”

“Rounds don’t start for a couple of weeks though, right?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Dean’s looking forward to getting out of the classroom and into observation hours, but he’s also worried about having to quit his job to have time, and then there’s the topic of money, and--

Dean takes a deep gulp of his beer. 

“So, Cas,” he says, “What should we do for the next few days?”

\------------------------------------------

As it turns out, Cas’ idea of a good time is convincing Dean to play Monopoly.

Dean loses, terribly, because he’s too busy thinking about what to make for dinner and also staring at Cas’ hands and trying not to lose his cool on top of the game.

“Okay,” Dean says, clearing the board almost the second he goes bankrupt, “Enough Monopoly. If we play this again, I’ll kill you.”

“That would be unfortunate,” Cas replies, his gaze serene. “What do you want to do next?”

Dean glances out the window. The snow is falling thicker and faster by the minute, and soon they’ll really be snowed in. What he  _ wants  _ to do is sleep for the next week (since he couldn’t very well sleep with Cas), but he also doesn’t want to disappoint his best friend, who has no idea about the sort of turmoil that Dean’s mind is sifting through.

“We could watch something. Don’t wanna overdo it with stuff, though, before we’re even really stuck.”

“I could never get sick of you, Dean,” Cas says, with absolute sincerity.

“I never said anything about getting sick of--” Dean stares at Cas, and then hauls himself up from the floor next to the coffee table, where they’d been playing, “How about I make us dinner first, then we’ll decide.”

Cas eats just about anything Dean cooks, but spaghetti is his favorite, so Dean starts pulling cans of tomatoes out of one of the kitchen cabinets, and then he bends down to rummage through the fridge for onions and garlic. 

“Please tell me you’re making spaghetti,” Cas says from behind him. Dean can hear him settling onto one of their bar stools.

“You betcha.” Dean straightens and shuts the fridge. “You want to turn on the news while I cook?”

“Not particularly. It’ll just be more of the same.” Cas looks up from his phone and catches Dean’s gaze. “Imagine if this happened next year. What if you got stuck at the hospital?”

“That’ll only happen if I actually finish,” Dean replies, his tone shorter than intended. “Which I will,” he amended, “Hopefully.”

“I know you will,” Cas’ voice is easy, confident, “If there’s anyone fit to be a nurse, it’s you.”

“Of course  _ you’d  _ say that.” Dean sets the onion on the cutting board and grabs a knife from the rack by the stove. 

“I say it because I know you.” Cas’ smile is wide and loose, and he lets it linger for a minute before he looks back down at his phone. “Four inches of snow so far, and the weather says it’s only falling faster. Should be seven inches by nine pm.” 

Dean abandons the onion to search for the spaghetti, listening to Cas idly kicking the island from his position on the bar stool. Cas is a steady presence, like a white noise machine that also happens to be criminally good-looking. As Dean straightens up with the box of spaghetti in his hand, Cas is still smiling at him. He sets his phone face-down on the counter.

“Can I help?” he asks.

“Remember what happened the last time you helped me cook?” The grout in their kitchen tile is  _ never  _ going to be the same. 

“Right.” Cas’ smile broadens. “There are worse things to watch, anyways.” 

\------------------------------------------

Dean lies awake, even though it’s nearly two am, staring at the snow falling outside his window. Cas is, he knows, already fast asleep in the next room. Cas always sleeps like he’s been robbed of it for years, passing out easily in the middle of movies, while Dean’s making dinner, or memorably once  _ during a Skype call with Dean. _

(To be fair, Cas had been abroad at the time, and staying up to chat was a bit of a timing nightmare.)

Dean can’t bring his eyes to close, though. Every time he lets his eyelids slide shut, he’s confronted, once again, with images of things he can’t have. He imagines what it would be like to have Cas in the bed next to him--he’s watched Cas nap on the couch enough that he knows exactly how it would go. Cas would roll over several times, adjusting himself, but eventually he would settle with an arm thrown around Dean. At least, that’s what Dean hopes, that he could steal some of Cas’ radiator-like warmth for himself.

Eventually, Dean gives in, and drifts off to the memory of Cas trying to make pancakes and setting off the fire alarm for Dean’s birthday last year. It’s a good memory, even with the firefighters that had searched their apartment.

\------------------------------------------

_ “Dean?”  _

Dean blinks his eyes open slowly. He’s not sure where he is--the ceiling swims above him, and whoever’s speaking to him sounds like they’re underwater.

“Dean, c’mon.”

It’s Cas.

Dean turns his head slowly to face Cas, who’s staring at him, brow furrowed. Dean becomes cognizant of a calloused palm pressed to his forehead. 

“What’s going on?” Dean asks, only it comes out as “Wuzzgoinon?” because his tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

“You definitely have a fever,” Cas says, his voice laced with concern, “How do you feel?”

Dean sits up slowly and coughs. His chest hurts. “I didn’t feel like this when I went to sleep.”

“I hope it’s just a cold,” Cas says. “I’ll go see if we have anything that can help...more snow fell overnight. Fourteen inches total now.”

“So we’re stuck?” Dean coughs again. 

“Yeah. I can also make you some soup.”

“Cas, you--” Dean sneezes into his elbow, “--You can’t cook for shit.”

“From a  _ can,  _ then.” Cas rolls his eyes. “Don’t do anything dumb while I’m gone.” 

As it turns out, Cas manages to dig up some cough medicine, assorted cough drops, and has googled  _ what to do when you have a cold. _

And now he’s trying to convince Dean that he needs to drink, like, a gallon of water.

“No, Cas, I don’t need that many fluids--” Dean starts, but Cas interrupts him.

“It says it’s good for your body and keeping up strength. And I don’t think beer will help you.”

“Can’t hurt.”

Cas scowls at him, and Dean shouldn’t find it adorable, but it’s Cas, so it is. His brow is furrowed and he’s frowning at Dean, and he looks so put out that Dean softens. 

“As long as I’m allowed to binge-watch  _ Dr. Sexy  _ until I get better,” Dean says, “I’ll drink as much water as you want me to.”

“Good,” Cas says, shoving a glass into his hand. “And eat  _ all  _ the soup.”

“Yes,  _ mom _ .”

Cas scowls again, and Dean laughs, and then breaks down coughing. He probably deserves it. 

\------------------------------------------

“If I knew this was all it was gonna take to get you to watch  _ Dr. Sexy  _ with me,” Dean says, “I would have tried to get a cold during a snowstorm a lot sooner.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, but he does glance over at Dean, and there’s a small smile on his face. They’re curled up on opposite ends of the couch, with Cas nursing a hot chocolate and Dean drinking a ginger ale that Cas found in the back of the fridge and coerced him into having instead of beer. Dean keeps wanting to make a joke about how he’s going to be a nurse one day, not Cas, but he can’t figure out how to get it to come out right. 

“How are you feeling?” Cas asks, halfway through the next episode. Dean shrugs in response. “You look tired,” Cas continues, “You should go to bed earlier tonight.”

“It’s just--” Dean coughs, “A cold, man. I’ll be--” another cough, “Fine.”

“Hmph.” They finish the rest of the episode in comfortable silence, and then start in on the next one. Cas lets out a yawn, and Dean stifles one of his own. 

He’s not quite ready to go to sleep. 

\------------------------------------------

Dean wakes up the next morning with no clue where he is. There’s entirely too much sunlight streaming into the room, and there’s a heavy weight on top of him that he doesn’t recognize. He also feels...really warm, almost sweaty. 

It isn’t altogether unpleasant, though. The weight on top of him is warm and soft and smells like honey and cinnamon and Cas’ lavender-scented shampoo and--

_ Shit. _

It  _ is  _ Cas.

Dean forces his eyes open and takes stock of the situation. The television is stuck on Netflix’s  _ are you still watching?  _ screen, and Cas is pitched on top of Dean like he’d fallen on top of him instead of purposely sleeping there. His head is pillowed on Dean’s chest, and while he isn’t snoring, he keeps making adorable (adorable, really?) snuffling sounds. 

Dean tries not to shift--as perverse as it feels to enjoy an accident, he’s enjoying this, another thing he’d only dreamed about. Eventually, though, Cas lifts his head, blinking his blue eyes at Dean blearily. They’re somehow even more vibrant than usual, and his hair--well, his hair is  _ spectacular _ . 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, his morning voice sounding like he gargled gravel during the night. “How are you?”

“Comfortable,” Dean says impulsively, “I mean, you’re comfortable. I mean, uh...” Dean wonders if jumping out their apartment window would be so bad. There would be snow to catch his fall.

“And you still have a cold,” Cas says, pulling himself up to a seated position. Dean misses the warmth instantly. “I’ll make you some tea.”

“I want coffee,” Dean replies.

“Nope. You’re sick.” Cas reached out a hand again to Dean’s forehead. “You still feel pretty warm.” They stare at each other for a long moment, and then Cas stands up. “Stay here.”

“Not like I can go far,” Dean grumbles, sitting up himself and pulling his blanket around his body. He was glad that he had chosen to wear sweatpants yesterday--jeans would have been hella uncomfortable to sleep in. 

Cas comes back a handful of minutes later with a mug of tea in hand--it’s one of Cas’ favorite mugs, ceramic and wide and covered in neatly painted flowers. He found it at a thrift shop that he dragged Dean to in college. Not that Dean minded--he’d found some great flannels and a couple of books there, and the smile on Cas’ face because of the mug was priceless. 

“Ginger tea with lemon and honey,” Cas says, setting the mug carefully on the coffee table. “It should help with your throat.”

“How’s the snow?” Dean asks after picking up the mug and taking a sip--it’s not all that bad. 

“Still falling. We’ll be here for at least two more days.” Cas sits back on the other end of the couch with his own mug of tea, this one covered in bees. “I wish I could go out and get you some real medicine.”

“C’mon,” Dean jokes, “You’re the only medicine I need.” 

The tops of Cas’ cheeks turn a delicate shade of red, and his hands get tighter on his mug. Dean can’t figure out if he regrets the joke--Cas  _ does  _ have the ability to make him feel better just by being there. Not that he can tell Cas that. 

The day passes much the same as the one before--Dean uses up a whole roll of toilet paper blowing his nose (they ran out of tissues before the snowstorm), Cas makes him more of the actually-not-that-bad tea, and by the evening, Dean feels well enough to cook dinner again.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Cas says, handing Dean a pack of ground beef from the fridge for chili.

“Cooking makes me happy,” Dean replies, “And I’m tired of sitting on my ass.” He coughs feebly, and before he can reach in his own pocket, Cas is handing him a cough drop. 

“At least this is something that just has to simmer,” Cas says. “I don’t want you exhausting yourself.”

“Once again, who’s the future nurse in this relationship?” Dean rummages through the cabinets for cans of black beans and tomatoes. He notices how Cas’ cheeks redden at his choice of words. 

They watch a movie--Steven Soderbergh’s  _ Logan Lucky,  _ a heist movie that involves a lot of race cars and beer--while the chili cooks, and Dean has just served them both huge bowls of it, laden with cheese, when the lights flicker out.

He eases their bowls carefully onto the counter and follows the sound of Cas’ voice into the living room, where Cas is walking around. Dean runs right into him, chest-to-chest, and when Cas speaks, his breath hits Dean’s cheek. 

“Do you remember where we put the box of matches?” Cas asks. 

Dean fumbles in his pocket for his phone and turns on the flashlight, waving it around until Cas finds the matches and lights the candles he has strewn across the living room--as Dean already knows, they’re all holiday-scented. It’s not bad, though. They bring the chili to the coffee table and sit on pillows on the floor. Dean tries not to watch Cas’ face as he eats, but the candlelight is doing wonders for Cas’ jawline. 

“This is good, Dean,” Cas says appreciatively. “Cell towers are down, otherwise I would look up when this is going to end.”

“I guess we’re just stuck here for the time being, even more so than before.” Dean takes the last bite of his chili, follows it with a swig of beer. “I’m not playing a board game in the dark, though.” 

“Wasn’t going to ask,” Cas replies. “Let me get our dishes.”

Cas was maybe right--Dean is winded from cooking and then lighting all the candles, so he curls up on the couch and listens to Cas clatter around the kitchen. 

“I think I’m going to head to bed,” Cas says when he comes back into the room, “Are you going to be alright?”

Dean’s not sure why he does it--maybe it’s the candlelight, or the fact that they’ve been stuck together and Cas has been taking care of him, or how long he’s just been  _ wanting _ \--but he reaches a hand out to grab Cas’ wrist. “Stay.”

“I--no, Dean.” Cas suddenly seems angry. “I can’t.”

“Cas…What did I do?”

“Nothing. It’s just--I can’t.”

“Tell me?” Dean sits up. “Tell me why. Please?”

Cas clears his throat uncomfortably, wrenches his wrist out of Dean’s grasp. “Because I can’t do any of this in a friendly way, okay? I didn’t want to tell you, because I don’t want things to change between us.”

Dean stares at Cas’s shadowy form. “Well, I do.” 

“No, you don’t.” Cas’ face is twisted into the saddest facsimile of hope that Dean has ever seen. 

_ Fuck it,  _ Dean thinks. If he can’t make Cas believe him with words, then he’ll have to do it some other way.

He sits up, grasps Cas by his shoulders and pulls him down onto the couch, until Cas’ face is inches from his. Dean swallows, licks his lips, and then moves one of his hands to Cas’ neck, guiding their mouths together. Even though Cas just basically said he liked him, Dean is slow, gentle. He waits to explore until Cas is kissing him back. 

Cas pulls away after a few moments, and Dean can feel how fast his heart is beating. “How long?” Cas asks.

“Too long,” Dean replies, before leaning back in to kiss him again. 

\------------------------------------------

“I’m going to get a cold because of this, aren’t I?” Cas asks, pressing his face into Dean’s chest.

“Then it’ll just be my turn to take care of you.” Sunlight is streaming into Cas’ room--eventually, they’d decided to blow out all the candles and retire to Cas’ bed instead of sleeping on the couch. Dean’s never slept so well, what with Cas’ warm body pressed against his and waking up to soft kisses. 

“Wouldn’t mind that.” Cas lifts his head, grins at Dean lazily. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Didn’t think you’d love me back,” Dean replies simply, not wanting to sidestep the truth anymore.

“You were wrong about that.”

“Yeah, and I’m pretty damn glad that I was,” Dean gets out before Cas’ lips are against his again, and Dean’s never been so happy to be snowed in. 


End file.
